Blades of Grass

My hands smelll like blueberry bagels.
I can hear a baby crying somewhere close by,
and a trashcan lid,
opening,
closing.

Mid afternoon; the Winter sun is setting,
the crows are on the hunt,
and the wind blows the steam off the top of my coffee.

The barren branches of the elms and birches
hold homes and hearts,
as the patchy sky is whisped with clouds as soft as feathers.

The dry air wraps its spidery arms around me,
drawing me into its deadly web.
Cocooned in hats, sweaters, scarves, and boots,
my warmpth is slowly sucked from my bones.

The clouds collect,
folding like dough,
from feathers into wings,
or a sea turtles shell

swimming high above the earth
with birds and planes alike.

And despondently,
i watch them fade into gossamer,
like blades of grass in the Spring.